SELF-UNCONSCIOUS

Along the way

He walked that day,

Watching shapes that reveries limn,

And seldom he

Had eyes to see

The moment that encompassed him.

Bright yellowhammers

Made mirthful clamours,

And billed long straws with a bustling air,

And bearing their load

Flew up the road

That he followed, alone, without interest there.

From bank to ground

And over and round

They sidled along the adjoining hedge;

Sometimes to the gutter

Their yellow flutter

Would dip from the nearest slatestone ledge.

The smooth sea-line

With a metal shine,

And flashes of white, and a sail thereon,

He would also descry

With a half-wrapt eye

Between the projects he mused upon.

Yes, round him were these

Earth's artistries,

But specious plans that came to his call

Did most engage

His pilgrimage,

While himself he did not see at all.

Dead now as sherds

Are the yellow birds,

And all that mattered has passed away;

Yet God, the Elf,

Now shows him that self

As he was, and should have been shown, that day.

O it would have been good

Could he then have stood

At a focussed distance, and conned the whole,

But now such vision

Is mere derision,

Nor soothes his body nor saves his soul.

Not much, some may

Incline to say,

To see therein, had it all been seen.

Nay! he is aware

A thing was there

That loomed with an immortal mien.